


Action Man

by argyle4eva



Series: Beyond Words [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-01
Updated: 2010-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-11 09:46:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/111032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyle4eva/pseuds/argyle4eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the LJ Sherlock kinkmeme, to the <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/575.html?thread=115263#t115263">prompt</a> "Although Sherlock is a complete narcissist when it comes to his intellect, he actually thinks he is the ugliest thing to grace god's green earth.  John feels the needs to fix this."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Action Man

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't quite get to the final part of the prompt, which reads " . . . With his penis," but I think the implications are clear. ;)

They were leaving the morgue after yet another of Sherlock's dubious experiments on the recently-deceased, this time rather late. Molly had let them into the locked building and hovered with her usual helpless devotion while Sherlock treated her like a piece of occasionally-useful furniture that brought coffee.

John had spent most of the time Molly was in the room the way he usually did: staying out of the way unless he was needed, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, staring at his toes and being mortally embarrassed. He'd never managed to get Sherlock to be any nicer to the poor woman (despite a few rather impressive rows in private), and he didn't have the heart to discreetly clue her in to the actual nature of his and Sherlock's relationship: partly because he didn't want to hurt her and partly because he knew how much Sherlock depended on her good graces for his work. The results of his Frankensteinian studies _had_ proven more useful on more than one occasion.

There were times when John didn't like Sherlock -- or himself -- very much, but he'd learned to live with that. He salved his conscience by being as close to not-there as he could during morgue visits, and treating Molly very kindly whenever interaction was unavoidable. He probably needn't have bothered; she hardly registered his presence at all, having eyes only for Sherlock.

Sherlock seemed oblivious to all this, so he startled John by commenting, out of nowhere, as they stepped into the cool night air, "I cannot help but wonder at the source of that woman's hopeless infatuation for me."

John clenched his jaw a bit at Sherlock's callous phrasing, but didn't object. They were still around the back of the building, it was late, and there was nobody near them, but he didn't want to get into an argument here. "Presumably she's attracted to you," he said instead. "That's the way it usually works."

Sherlock snorted. "I'm aware of that," he said, dryly. "But I wouldn't have figured her to have the intellectual capacity."

"Since when is attraction necessarily _intellectual_?" John asked, frowning.

"Well, she must be attracted to my mind," Sherlock said, wrapping his scarf around his neck and knotting it. "There's nothing else it _could_ be."

John blinked, realizing that they'd just turned a corner into the topsy-turvy world of Sherlock Logic and there was something he wasn't quite getting.

"It could be strictly physical," John pointed out, trying to get in a ranging shot so he could figure out the territory. "Much as you like to pretend you're a disembodied intellect, you do still have a body."

Sherlock snorted and shot John a withering stare. "She isn't _blind_, John," he said, as if stating something incredibly obvious. As he spoke, he pulled on one of his gloves with fussy precision, and, distracted, kept walking a few more steps before noticing John had stopped.

Sherlock stopped in turn, and looked over his shoulder, frowning. "What?" he asked.

"Sorry," John said, "I'm missing something. Why would Molly have to be blind to find you physically attractive?"

Sherlock huffed out one of his _people are so bloody slow_ breaths. "I'm aware your objectivity might be somewhat compromised, but _really_, John."

"Really what?" John asked, settling in, stubborn.

Sherlock sighed theatrically. "If I must rehash what you've surely already noticed, my facial features are irregular, my chin nearly nonexistent, I have a squint, my physique is weedy at best, my complexion is pasty, and . . ." his nose wrinkled faintly in distaste as he yanked his second glove on in emphasis, "I have _moles._" Someone else might have used the same tone of voice to say _leprosy._ "Donovan isn't the first to use the word 'freak.' My intellect is what sets me apart."

John just stared; it felt like someone had set off a bomb between his ears. Whole new vistas of Sherlock's unique mental landscape were unfolding before him, not to mention his history.

_Children can be relentlessly cruel, especially to anyone who's different; what did Sherlock absorb from his peers, back when? You've met Mycroft -- what the hell were those Christmas dinners like, let alone everyday life? I bet nobody stopped to say anything comforting to a young boy who was thirteen and skinny with new growth and covered with spots and aware of it in the painful way adolescents are. How did Sherlock see himself as he grew up, with nobody to offer a dissenting opinion? And how deeply entrenched did that view become?_

"You seriously think you're ugly?" was what came out of his mouth, which was probably better than the other responses running through his head, like, _it's not your looks that Donovan's referring to_ and _are you off your fucking rocker?_

Sherlock frowned, that faint contraction of the eyebrows that meant he genuinely didn't understand. "I believe that's what I said, assuming you heard me correctly." His tone implied that he wasn't sure about the latter.

John swallowed, thoughts crowding his head as he looked at Sherlock, tall, cool and elegant, his refined features picked out in sharp black and white in the dim light, like some fashion model in a photoshoot, but infinitely more handsome because he was real, because he always looked this way. John knew what he wanted to say, but the words jammed up inside him: they weren't things he knew how to say out loud.

_People walking down the street trip over their feet when they see you. Donovan hates you because you won't give her a second glance. Your mind is amazing, but . . . you're beautiful, you idiot. And God help me, it wasn't till this moment that I understood you don't have a clue. You don't have any idea how you affect people. That explains so much._

"I heard you," John said out loud. "You're just wrong."

"I'm not wrong," Sherlock said, sounding affronted. Sherlock was never wrong. "Even _you_ commented first on my thought processes. I can only assume they were what attracted your attention to me."

_Only because I'm not exactly the type to start hitting up random people by commenting on their looks,_ John thought, suddenly seeing his interactions with Sherlock in an entirely new light.

John inhaled deeply, and let it out slowly. He and Sherlock never talked about what was between them; they just did it. Even if they'd had a "talking" relationship it wouldn't have helped much. John never been good with spoken words; his blog was helping him discover an unexpected affinity for written language, but this wasn't his blog. All he had to express himself was his own breath, in realtime. It didn't seem adequate. _Think of it like a blog entry, is there any kind of thread you can find, any anecdote or theme . . .?_ Inspiration hit like yet another lightning bolt -- it was his brain's night for attracting them, it seemed.

_Actions speak louder than words._ A cliche, but one holding a grain of truth.

"Sherlock," he said, walking forward, closing the distance between them, keeping his tone even. "Have you ever wondered why I like to leave the lights on when we . . . you know?" He indicated the words he didn't speak with a shrug of one shoulder and a sideways tilt of his head.

Sherlock blinked. "I assumed it was practical. Easier to see what you're doing," he said, rational and unembarrassed.

"Partly that," John had to admit for honesty's sake, "but it's mostly because I want to look at you. I want to _see_ you, so I can really, truly believe I'm with someone . . . " he nearly chickened out, but locked gazes with Sherlock and made himself continue. "Someone as bloody gorgeous as you are."

_Oh, God, did I actually say that out loud?_ John's thoughts wailed, horrified, but his soldier's reflexes stood him in good stead and kept him staring, serious and steady, into Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock's keen, focused gaze flickered slightly, reading John's features, seeking for information, more accurate than any polygraph. John didn't have half Sherlock's skill, but he could still see the small changes in the other man's face and register the moment Sherlock first believed him.

Sherlock blinked rapidly. "I'm . . . glad you think so," he said, uncertain, clumsy at expressing emotion, even worse than John, and that was saying something.

"Oh, I don't just _think_ so," John said, with a sense of mad, giddy abandon. "I know so." Past worrying about the words coming out of his mouth.

_Actions speak louder than words._

"And I can prove it," John finished, reaching up and (daring, incredibly daring under the open sky, outside their safe rooms in Baker Street) brushing an elegant cheekbone with his thumb. "I can _show_ you."

It's the fastest they've ever managed to hail a cab.


End file.
